Mind
by promessa
Summary: ME3, Post-Destroy ending. After it's all over, Joker longs for what he cannot have. One-shot.


**Mind**

* * *

If this is a joke, he's not laughing.

He knows that a moment like this was inevitable. Too much time has passed and technology never lies still. He was more or less prepared for a scenario similar to this one. But the irony of it all, that _this_ would be the first synthetic he sees after too long, is just a blatant kick to the gut. As one feels upon the harsh realization of being a favorite target of a mean-spirited prankster, Joker cannot help but think the galaxy has tormented him one too many times.

That the personal assistant robot on display in the boutique appears human-like is not what's unfathomable. It's not even the latest model. His trained eyes tell him the hydraulics is not up to date and there's still a glossy sheen to the artificial skin, the materials used undoubtedly second-rate. But that is unimportant, after all; he knows the thing's purpose is meant for the care of the elderly, the sick, the damaged. It has no identity of its own and is simply a tool. So for it to not be marketed despite minor imperfections would be poor business practice. As long as it resembled a human enough, it still had a place.

No, that the thing is human-like is not what unsettles him. It's that the unit's features are fashioned just-so, the height just-right, the curves and contours just-nearly matching _her._ That's what unsettles him.

He takes a hesitant, shaky step forward to get a better look at the thing. Thoughts race through him, few logical, to explain why this thing could resemble her. Someone on the Normandy could have had time to steal a part or two from her motionless body, reverse-engineered it, then sold it on the black market. (Impossible. I never left her, not for a second, and they had all said "poor, poor Joker" without _caring_.) Or the Alliance had gleaned something from Cerberus' blueprints and this is a reconstruction; he can't deny that it has been too long since he has been planetside since then. (Liara would have told me. She would. Even she wouldn't be cold enough to _not let me know_—)

But none of those thoughts last. Instead one frightening, senseless what-if remains between that second it takes for him to fully investigate the thing's features and for reality to take hold again:

What would he do, if this thing really _was_ her?

His hands are trembling but he doesn't notice.

What he does notice after only a few seconds more of study is that it is blessedly not her, not even close. Panicked, nervous laughter escapes his lips. A trick of the light, it must have been. A bad joke played by his mind and the galaxy. A hopeless wish.

But now he is close, too close to the damn thing. He has invaded its space, and it his mind, and he realizes too late that he has already humanized the object. He fidgets nervously, trying to erase any real emotion towards the nameless robot but knowing full well why he cannot. It's a leftover sentiment that he knows he will never be rid of because there forever remains a single ghost in his memory, now no longer existing in any one machine. Instead this ghost springs to existence everywhere, in every artistic, practical, twisting composition of alloy.

The thing before him has no will, certainly. It simply stands there, soulless, unactivated, waiting for an owner. Waiting to be brought to (_life_) a home. It is no different than the toys he used to share with his sister, the same misshapen, blackened messes that he found in the burnt remains of his home. This thing should not be pitied.

But he feels pity nevertheless. He never felt this, before. Not for any of the geth, save Legion—and even then, only at the end. Not for any other synthetic.

Not any before her.

He had once asked Mordin, long ago, if the salarian had ever had any heebie-jeebies when working with living samples. The scientist's chuckle had been less patronizing and more genuine that time, his voice distorted over the intercom, saying Shepard had asked the exact same thing before.

No tests on any species capable of calculus, Mordin had answered. It seemed reasonable to Joker, at the time.

Before her. All before the annoying AI had become shapely synthetic had become _real._

Had become the love of his life.

All before that.

He reaches out and brushes against the thing's shoulder, despite himself. It's just like he suspected. It feels fake, cold, dead.

She had felt like that to him, at the end of it all.

He lowers his head. Everything leaves his mind, save for the grief.

_No. It's not you. There is nothing like you. Not anymore._

"—interested, sir?"

He turns to see a young woman smiling helpfully at him. A lifetime ago he would have been insulted to have been singled out. But then again, a lifetime ago he never would have spent this long in front of something that blatantly advertised a handicap.

"Are you interested in our—"

He doesn't answer and instead hobbles away, refusing to turn back. He is not worried about the reaction of the saleswoman, but rather accidentally seeing that thing again, looking off into the distance, forever waiting.

"...what the hell am I doing?" Joker mumbles to no one, unsure what he should feel.

The ghost crackles online in his mind once more, an indistinct whisper, and he imagines her buried alongside his father and sister on his favorite hill on Tiptree, overlooking the colony and the galaxy rebuilding, and wonders if she is waiting for the day when he will do the same.

-End-

Author's Note: Inspired by the amazing amazing artist Makani (Makanidotdot), whose Tumblr is a must-visit for all Mass Effect fans.


End file.
